Democratic Northwest. [volume] (Napoleon, Ohio) 1869-1894, 1887-04-14
"SHE'S MY WIFE, p"

I
not restrain her impatience. She walked ur
and down the platform in the fog. She Shiv.
cred with cold, she, the warm blooded,
merry Shirley. Her knees trembled beneath
her with weakness, but her will kept her up
There is nothing SO good as strong will
Well, at last, in fifteen minutes it would be
train time. She looked at her watch Itwas
very chilly. She disliked to go back into the
| little waiting room. 1t was full of giggling
girls, smirking youths and stupid women.
In the unhappy, unreasonable mind in which
she was, how she hated them
Nevertheless, she was chilled to the bone.
She turned to so inside, and came face to face
with Philip Dumorayl
He had been to the cottage and had fol-
lowed on after her. His injured hand was
bound up and carried in sling. His torn,
disordered clothing had been replaced by a
well made toilet He would have been neatly
attired if he had dressed himself for the scat
i fold. There was dandy enough about Philip
Dumoray for that. His face was still very
pale, but firm and composed. He looked re-
proachfully at Shirley.
"Why did you 60 away when you knew I
wished to see you again?"
you knew did not wish to see you?'
II did not know it," he replied, simply.
"Then you ought to have known it, You
saved my life. l ought to thank you for that,
suppose. But l don't Life will not be so
sweet or pleasant to Inc hereafter that
should cherish desperate desire to hang to
it through thick and thin"
SHIRLEY" said he, "there is something
have to tell YOU 1t is wretched story.
ask you to bear with me and listen to it."
"I don't wish to hear it," she answered,
coldly.
"But must tell you" he said.
my train is coming" said Shirley. "There
it is at the curve Good morning, MIR. Du-
moray"
He laid his unwounded hand upon her arm,
not very gently, if the truth must be told.
The gentle master was not in gentle mood
that morning.
"You shall not go until you hear me-" he
exclaimed. Shirley, if you don't stop
Pip
"You'll whatlo she retorted
"Shirley, your father was my friend. By
the memory of your father, grant mo this
one favor. 1t is the last request may ever
make of YOU"
The train stopped, gathered up its passer-
gers, and went on, and Shirley was not
among them. She led the way into tho rail
way waiting room. ..
"Well, what is it you wish to say to me?"
she asked. Her manner was as Indifferent as
If the last night had never BEEN
II cannot tell you here" ho said
or oil eba
ask mo to go back to that wretched house"
$50 he it then," he replied. He had hoped
tho Lord knows what he had hoped. It
was truo all was over now, all the possibili-
ties he had dreamed of in that BRIEF mad
hour of the night before. Was that a cen
tury ago, in some other state of existence?
There was nothing for them now But if
Shirley only knew his history, only could
understand how he had struggled against
fate, she might be not so hard. There might
be little less suffering for them both. If he
could have her alone, and tell her, she would
be gentler Nay, he might even hope to be
forgiven at last. But she hal willed it that
he should speak to her here, and speak he
would ~ # III
So there, in the wretched waiting room,
he narrated his miserable story, not abating
one jot. He told her of the fire, of his twin
boys, how strangely he had lost them, how he
had searched the world over for them. He
told her, too, Of the levilish suspicion that
had been set afloat by his wife's mother. aud
how at last all men turned against him : :
wherever my name was heard, he said, Z
shat vile SANDER followed me, till it drove
mo to desperation. went away where no
Dne knew me-, changed my name, in hope
to find some peace, was wrong. ! should
have stayed there, in that very spot, and
faced my enemies, and lived ID down, though
died of starvation" 4
"Yes, that is what you should have done,T
aid Shirley.